“…Directly south of that Bureau’s dwelling—and I was unable to mention this the first time—is the westside’s elven quarters, an area where much of the westside’s elven population has been forced into.” Faulkner’s pointer so struck that spot, dragging a circle with its tip.

  Antica stood there at attent; she had been listening along to yet another lecture on this map. Indeed… She had been requested early this new day by the colonel, who actually had the time for once.

  Initially, she believed that this was going to be appertaining to her…covert and secretive exit the other day, however either they had not noticed, or they simply did not care to mention they had noticed. Then she was expecting this to be about the ‘talks’ with the Bureau, however such had only been a brief and quick discussing, the colonel merely wanting clarification on a few details and specifics. Indeed, instead, he seemed quite eager to ‘recontinue’ or ‘finish’ where they had ‘last left off’ regarding this map.

  Not that Antica could complain, minded, since she was hoping that all of this would build to…something—orders preferably.

  “Forced into?” She prodded him to continue.

  “Myes… You see, the elves and the ‘mans’—a stupid dialectical word—of this city have had a…turbulent relationship across history, even though the Strawberrien elves are an ancient stock unrelated to their more savage forest-dwelling kin of this continent. They speak typical tongue and dress like any ordinary man; but, alas… their ears remain pointy, and they still worship fairies.” Faulkner explained; “Even before the food crisis and flighter problem, tensions were present, and a riot some years ago burnt elvish homes and businesses, forcing them against the walls and into segregated squalor.”

  “I see…” Ah. Of course. The denizen motivations were asinine.

  “Regardless,” Faulkner continued, “the westside elvish quarter has fallen under the influence of this ‘Trickster’ character and his so-called ‘gang’… Interesting bunch they are, but they are quite…defensive—no thanks to, well, several reasons.” His pointer circled around the shaded zone, before shifting its point; “And I find it doubtlessly peculiar that his ‘territory’ happens to be close to the Bureau’s little dwelling, though that is neither here nor there…” He spoke as if there were preconceived conclusions to be drawn from such a coincidence.

  “Uhuh.” Antica just followed along.

  Faulkner ahemed. “At any event, moving on,” he thus moved on, “if you may recall, I raised several…issues regarding the Restorationists the last time—”

  “I remember clearly, sir.” Antica quickly and…respectfully stated.

  “Myes, doubtlessly so.” Faulkner acknowledged and continued, “Those reactionaries are deserving of much scorn... However, I perhaps had painted an…inaccurate picture. Too broad.” His pointer circled the westside. “Much of what I had said primarily applies to the…westside Restorationists.” His pointer then struck the eastside and with emphasis. “The eastside Restorationists, however… Well, they have potential…”

  “…potential?” Antica tilted her head…

  “Myes. Potential.” And Faulkner, naturally, did not specify. Instead, with his pointer held between his armpit, he took out a specially sealed envelope of sorts and proceeded to dutifully hand it to Antica.

  “What is…this?” She took this sealed enveloped into hand.

  “What does it look like?” Faulkner simply replied.

  “…a… Uhm… A letter? Is that what is…inside of this?” She seemed more uncertain than she ought to be, frankly.

  “Myes. A letter addressing. Highest secret, we shall say. No eyes are to see besides the recipient.” he thus stated, specifying; “You are to deliverer it, fast and swift.”

  “Uhuh…” Antica looked at him… “And thus… What for?” She meant to ask ‘to whom’, more accurately.

  “The Eastside Restorationists.” Faulkner nevertheless answered; “There has been an…incident, we shall say, involving them and the other principal actors whom I have referenced. A wrong turn and a few unfortunate deaths.”

  “I see…” Antica just acknowledged.

  “And unless mediation is done,” Faulkner continued, “I fear there could be a larger…‘street war’, as it is called—a sectarian one. And we shan’t have that in these already trying times, hence the urgency.” His voice seemed awfully passive and unconcerned, however.

  “Hm…” Antica’s mask-obscured eyes looked at the special envelope without recipient or address, the inclusion of such being customary in Far Western letters. “Why only one?” she asked, looking at him. “Why not two? If this mediation is the purpose? Would it not be good to give one to…the others involved too, and not just these eastside restorationists?”

  “You would be correct, however this Trickister and his elves are…well, undiplomatic. And they are allegedly armed with firearms somehow, in spite of the import prohibition, making them particularly dangerous, and we cannot have any further incidents, now.” Faulkner thus explained.

  Truly, Antica could only wonder how these apparent belligerents could have possibly gotten their hands on such; it was not as though she had observed the open supply and distribution of firearms to the local population or anything.

  “The Eastside Restorationists, on the other side,” Faulkner spoke on, “we have had…productive even if unofficial contact with them for some time now. It is why they are much more…humble than their westside fellows. But this is the cause for secrecy, given the unofficiality.”

  “Hm…” Antica cogitated. “It is understood. But… If I may ask, why do you want me to…deliver this? Why not your…proper persons? If this contact was already made.”

  “Well,” Faulkner casually raised his shoulders, “there are many reasons. Your armband gives a semblance of associated importance, thereby shielding you from accosting even by those antagonistic, and your apparent womanliness, appearance wise, might be what we need for this situation…as our messenger—to lower the chance of incidents or harm.”

  “I see…” Yet for whatever reason, Antica found his voice…unconvincing. If secrecy was the objective, then…her armband would give her away, no?

  “Either way, however,” yet his posture turned stern, “you are to see to it that this letter finds itself in the appropriate hands and then report back here to me. This is a…covert matter, and you will not be precisely alone, to specify.” he thus specified. “We can call this…a gambit, if you will—a formal initiation of relations and trust.”

  “Hm…” Antica still had some things wondering in mind. However, this was likely all beyond her domain anyway. She opted to trust her denizen superior. “Alrightly, this seems to be simple…” Her mask-obscured sight looked into him; “But I take it, then, that you will specify where it is that I must go?”

  “Myes, of course.” Faulkner returned to the map, the pointer striking its tip onto it, his authoritative eyes relooking at her. “And I expect you to memorize it.”

  -||-

  A busy day with busy streets, though by no means Coastfield-levels of degree. Antica made her merry way, within a small special strapped bag being that enveloped letter needing to be delivered. She had her curiosity, indeed, but it would never cross her mind to open it without explicit and sanctioned authorization.

  Strange really, that she could find herself under such a spell when, in Remnant structure, her command authority practically overrode anything that denizen officer could ever ordain, no matter ‘rank’. Of course, she was not… operating as a Remnant trooper in a technical sense, and this was no Remnant-relevant mission.

  Regardless, the structured streets and avenues became tighter as she traversed deeper into Strawberry’s eastside, observing only minor deviations from the cultural aesthetics relative to the westside. In terms of noise, however, this ‘eastside’ was seeming awfully calmer and quieter.

  There were not many armbanded people openly out and about, and those that were seemed to be minding their own affairs. Of course, she was still receiving typical glares and general stares, though she was never accosted or heckled. In general, there did not appear to be as much activity here as the westside areas.

  However, in spite of both that and the evident calm, what did seem strangely apparent were Faulkner’s balloons. Antica remembered that map quite clearly in her recent memory, and she did not recall the eastside having as much shaded areas of notoriety; logic would stipulate these balloons ought to be more in westside, yet… Right, she remembered that such was not the case. It was almost as if these balloons formed a ‘path’ of sorts, one that happened to correspond to the very routes Faulkner had instructed her.

  Although, thinking of Faulkner… Indeed, as she made her merry way following the colonel’s precise directions, eyes were on her, she had long realized. Eyes amongst the general others around that so stared observant yet also…attempting to be vague and inconspicuous—which only made them conspicuous to her. A few cloaked figures, she had also noticed, seemed to be trailing her amidst the masses—these ones did not seem to bother making themselves appear unobvious. She could tell from the way they stood and the way they walked that they were likely soldiers.

  ‘Not necessarily alone’, the colonel had said something along those lines… And, indeed, at least he did not lie. Antica was not too surprised, for this was merely a continuation of what he was already doing back at the headquarters; he was keeping eyes on her. However, given that it seemed Faulkner—or the Company—had…disguised persons amongst the general population, she could only wonder why, again, he had not utilized them for this letter delivery… Her armband negated any possible disguise factor, and this was supposed to be ‘covert’.

  Regardless, Antica opted to not question or contemplate excessively. Denizen affairs were denizen affairs; always ten layers of additional abstracted absurdities involved. She simply continued to follow along as if she had not noticed anything, albeit keeping her attention sharp and tacitly tracking.

  Her destination was located in the farthest corner of Strawberry’s eastside to the south; according to Faulkner, it was some kind of old ‘industrial district’. Apparently, some many-many years ago, Strawberry had attempted to establish their own domestic production and manufacturing capabilities, or ‘industrialize’ as he called it, but the United Company ultimately ‘pressured’ them to shutter the endeavor before completion, leaving the entire sector abandoned to this day… And, naturally, such was where the so-called ‘Eastside Restorationists’ had established their effective base of operations.

  Already, the fact they even had a base of operations gave her the implication that these ‘Eastside Restorationists’ were more organized and structured than the apparently different ‘Westside Restorationists’, despite not having formally met them yet. This, of course, only made them potentially more troublesome… She could see the colonel’s interest in opting for…diplomatic mediation rather than belligerent aggression.

  After some time of navigating and traversing, Antica only becoming lost…a few…momentary instances, she entered the southeastern corner of this city, which appeared evidently more sparsely populated and…underdeveloped. This definitively became the case when the streets and aged buildings abruptly ended, giving way to a large square field of tainted dirt and yellowy dry grass, going through which was a single lame road. Although it was the expected case that the closer to the walls, the lesser the development and the more nature there would be, this seemed to be an intentional hole in this urbanity.

  And even before she began to follow down that single road into this empty void, what was up ahead at its center was already visibly obvious: that so-called ‘industrial district’, which was more of a compound if anything.

  It was segregated by aged fencing, within which were four buildings. The largest was that main ‘factory’ facility, which had two large…vent-thingies—she knew not the word—protruding out of it. The other major building was some kind of headquarters or administrative facility, and the final two buildings were storage facilities.

  As she arrived at the fencing’s one and only gate, it was immediately obvious that this compound was under occupation.

  There were a few other souls she could immediately spot through the fences’ bars, although not too many… And two improvised and crudely constructed towers occupied the flanks of the entry gate from the other side, waving from which were those ever-identifiable Restorationist banners.

  However, unlike the prior Restorationist vexils that she had observed in westside, these ones had a…slight yet still discernable difference in the design. While the core of it was identical, the central element—those two bars—formed less of a vertical flipped vee shape, ‘?’, and instead more of a horizontal…greater-than shape, ‘>’. While such could simply be due to the angle the vexils were being hung, this was a consistent feature she had observed with the prior few armband-wearing persons whom she had managed to spot during the walk hither.

  Thus, she could not help but infer that such was an intentional design decision, which implied to her in kind that…these Eastside Restorationists were likely trying to distinguish themselves as separately distinct from their westside fellows…while also retaining the common association or affiliation… Interesting, though irrelevant.

  Either way, they were not even trying to hide their occupancy.

  Only one of the two banner-flying towers had a pair of watching eyes staring her down, whom she thus looked up and eyed in kind. “Hello, I greet…” she thus greeted. “I am with the Company…”

  The sole watchman, having a mere crossbow, simply glared her down. “Oh, yah. Ich cunne clearlic seen by-fra thyne armbond, missie.” he plainly stated. “Thou instandst with the Companie.” Accent checked out, at least; he was clearly local.

  Antica opened that small little carrier bag of hers, taking out the envelope-sealed letter for delivery. “I am here to…give the message—letter, I mean. I bring letter…”

  “Message, ey?” The watchman looked at her, thinking, before shifting his gaze to far behind where she stood. “Ond they be thy guarden?”

  “Guards?” Antica turned behind, eyeing…

  Ah. Those mysterious cloaked persons who were totally not Faulkner’s soldiers; they, again, were not bothering to hide themselves… Meandering behind, monitoring, watching, or perhaps safeguarding… Who knew.

  Antica returned her masquerade-hidden eyes to that watchman, her reply being a mere shrug.

  “Hhm.” the watchman mumbled, yet it seemed that he was not particularly suspicious—an indicator, indeed. “Ich see. Alreadie opene, gate beth. Thou mayst enteren. Thy ‘guarden’ too.”

  “Alrightly…” Hm, well, that was quite simple and easy… He did not seem bothered at all. Nevertheless, Antica gently pushed the fence’s gate which opened swiftly, stepping forth and formally entering this abandoned industrial compound.

  “Head byldynde. Nought factorie.” the watchman now behind began to say; “Sche beth in-thither. Forwards cautionarien: sche’th nought happie.”

  “It is understood… I shall go there, then.” Hm, ‘she’, did he say now? Specific pronoun denoting natural rather than grammatical form… Thus, the recipient was female, then? Interesting… From everything Antica had observed of these denizens’ societies so far, specialist humiforms were the ones typically occupying higher or leading positions, not generics… Or maybe she had spent too much time in that Far Western headquarters.

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  Naturally, Antica observed as she made way towards that administrative building situated between the main factory and the two warehouses. The amount of space within the boundary of this compound suggested that whatever operation was intended to take place here would have involved many hundreds, potentially thousands, of personnel; extensive, indeed… Yet it seemed almost barren and empty, with not much noise or background ambience.

  It almost felt as though she and the few cloaked figures still stalking her—she did not even need to turn to know—were the only persons outside. Of course, such was not true; there were others, and she could certainly sense their piercing glares.

  Perhaps the rest were simply scattered about the city’s eastside, not presently here; or maybe they were in the buildings; or maybe these Eastside Restorationists were simply not nearly as abundant or equal numbered as those Westside Restorationists. Though, such could only make her wonder as to why they would select such a large compound as their effective base of operations… Granted, the site was well suited for them, being obscure, abandoned, with hardly any souls ever coming here; however, maybe they were expecting an eventual surge in numbers and… Hm.

  Indeed, she could see how this compound could be retrofitted into a military operating station and potential training ground… Hm. She could only wonder why the local authority had not done anything about this…apparent occupation.

  Antica arrived at that administrative building, halting before it… Compared to that factory, it looked completed. She identified a humble set of four stairs that led to the front door, which she promptly went up and stood before that door… What next? Right. She needed to knock; thus, she knocked.

  Almost immediately, a slider of sorts slid open, revealing a pair of glaring eyes. “Who be thou?” a masculine voice so interrogated, the owner of those eyes.

  “I am with the Company. I bring message—”

  “Phrase.” the voice immediately demanded.

  Phrase? Oh, right. “Ambitions never dying; ember flames defeated but unextinguished.” she repeated verbatim what Faulkner had disclosed to her in the event such was demanded.

  “One minute.” The voice withdrew.

  Antica sighed and thus awaited… Well, it seemed that she must not be the first Company personnel to visit here; there was some sense of pre-established familiarity, such was apparent.

  As she waited in place, one minute already passing, her perspective eyes peeked about. There was a cloaked figure directly behind her somewhere, though she bothered not to eye. Hm… Yet she spotted further off to the right of her standing...those two warehouses, situated side by side to one another. She could make out two souls standing near the left warehouse’s large wooden gate, one of whom was obviously cloaked… Talking, perhaps?

  Quite the established familiarity, indeed…

  Yet finally, two minutes having passed, that door suddenly clicked with an unlocking sound before flinging open, Antica’s attention swiftly swinging back in kind.

  Opening the door wide was, as foreshadowed, a lady, who leaned herself against it. “What dost thou want?” The young woman’s voice was already belligerent. Although her face was a blur, she was nevertheless awfully sniffly, her eyes strained and sore, cheeks slightly pinkish…

  Had…she been crying? Or was this a disease? Antica could only speculate. Regardless, “I greet you… I am to give to you this, I believe.” She simply handed the woman the enveloped letter. “I am with the Company…”

  “No shite, missie.” The woman snagged the letter from her hand, nose sniffling… “A fouckyn’ letter, that’s it?” Her breaths sizzled, emotionally charged and barely contained. Despite the scoffs, she ripped open the envelope and unfolded the letter, her strained eyes reading it right there. And, indeed, as she read, her fingers clenched with tightening hostility, a scowl developing on her face. “Seriously?” Her nails practically pierced the paper.

  “Mh?” Antica was confused.

  “This…be it?” The young woman’s eyes glared at her. “This is it? After what happened? He sendeth some fouckyn’ Companie sweetie to delieveren a wee pissie letter?!” she practically yelled, quite unhappy indeed. “Unbelievable… This is stupid! Stu-pid! Thou go ‘nd tell him to senden a man we can with-talken ond not some deliverie missie!”

  Antica had zero prior context for any of this. However, it was clear that the Company must have been in contact with them for quite the time… Or, rather, not just the Company… “I will convey this to…him, then.” Indeed, ‘him’… Thus, Faulkner specifically—unless she was referring to a different ‘him’.

  The woman, however, nearly growled with chattering teeth. “No, no… Not that. Tell him he hathn’t even a wee shittie day; if he dothn’t send someone to talk by tonyght, we shall act. I don’t want a pissie wee letter tellyn’ me nothing but to hold as if nothin’ happened!”

  “I will…tell him that also—”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Yet suddenly, footsteps so stepped up those four stairs, that cloaked figure who had been lingering somewhere behind finally interjecting himself. He stood beside Antica, lowering his hood…

  Antica herself had never heard this soldier’s voice before, but it was clear from the subtle changes in the woman’s demeanor that she certainly knew him.

  “Hmph.” And the young woman was hardly amused. “So… Thou were here, then? If thou were with madam delieverie this whole time, then why-for this shite letter?” She glared at him before shifting her glare straight to her. “Ond whost even this Companie sweetie be, huh? Why the mask? Ond that armband…” She returned her glare to him. “What happened to secrecie?”

  “You wanted someone to talk to. So, let’s talk. Inside.” yet Faulkner’s cloaked soldier merely stated, his voice then shifting to Antica. “Good job. Report back to the colonel at once. Don’t wander. Don’t talk to anyone. Understood?”

  Hm. Well, his voice seemed quite adamant in specifying that. “It is understood…” Antica nodded and promptly departed down those stairs, those two retreating into the bowels of that building, door slamming shut.

  She began to walk off, yet…only to pause and turn around, looking at that abandoned administrative building… Hm. For some reason, she could not help but wonder what their ‘talking’ was about, indeed… She was getting a weird feeling from this.

  Nevertheless, turning back around, she recontinued her walk… Yet, as she did so, her attention found itself wandering astray to those two warehouses… That other cloaked person was gone, she noticed, left being only one denizen armed with a…pointy fork-stick of sorts…at the left warehouse’s wooden gate.

  Hm… Guarding? And only the left warehouse—not the right… Indeed, relative to the right warehouse, which seemed clearly abandoned in disrepair, the left warehouse seemed in comparatively better condition. Both this and the guarding denizen suggested…active usage, and this made her…curious. And as she stared and kept staring, her curiosity only grew...

  Antica’s walk slowed to a pause, mask-obscured eyes remaining fixated on that warehouse. She had no evidence or grounds to be suspicious, yet… There was just something about that warehouse. Instincts were telling her things within… Even if inferential and ungrounded, nevertheless still there…

  She was ordered to not talk to anyone, yet…

  Hmm…

  After deliberation, she made the decision to…nevertheless happen a simple approach… And if that guarding denizen happened to speak to her, then, well… He initiated it.

  Antica thus redirected her way towards that warehouse of interest. Seeing her approachment, that single stationed denizen instantly reacted in a posture suggesting protective belligerence. Yet she continued and soon arrived, standing there with silence as her masqueraded eyes merely inspected.

  “Maskie… Armband or no, thou be naht hither for a wee tour…” the Restorationist immediately initiated.

  “Huhm?” Antica played confused… “Oh, rightly… I just became curious.” She turned her attention to him. “Why are you…here, if I may ask? Is there…something in there?” She was not expecting an answer; she was, however, expecting behavior.

  The guarding person’s stance hardened, his eyes glaring into her. “If-when thou beest unwiten, then that meanth thou motest mynden thyne eyen whenst in-at an others home, Companie alien.” His voice was staunch indeed.

  Hm. Interesting. “But there was someone else here, no? With the cloak… You were talking…”

  “Mayhap ic was tellynde him what ic be seiynde to thee!” He raised his arms, threatening. “Out-gette backwayes hence, now!”

  “I give sorry; my curiosity was…too big.” Antica promptly backed away and departed from him, yet…only to try to circle the warehouse.

  “Hey, hey! Don’t thee be… Stop!” And that guarding Restorationist certainly did not like that.

  Antica halted as he came stomping her way. “Oh, I give sorry again…” she apologized; “I became…turned around. Where is the exit?”

  “Ugh! Thatawayes!” The Restorationist so pointed and pointed. “Stupyde…Far Western gyrle… One wayes in-fram ond out-to!”

  “Rightly… This place is big; it is easy to become…turned wrongly…” It really was not. Regardless, departing off, Antica thus ‘corrected’ her course and headed for that front entry gate.

  Well, that somehow had worked, despite her rusted affect display. He thought she was more stupid than suspicious. And it was obvious they were hiding something in there. She had identified no alternative means of entry, albeit not that she could even sneak in there undetected… However, she had identified a small port or ‘vent’ opening of sorts—one quite suitable for…smaller entry.

  As Antica walked, she evaluated her surroundings… No cloaked figures, and the few denizens about would surely not mind if she randomly started talking to herself—such already being an oddly common tendency amongst these denizens anyway. Not that they were even near enough to hear, and she doubted anyone looking would care to ponder.

  A risk either way, however she was now quite curious… Thus, keeping her walk calm and her posture inconspicuous, her finger consequently found itself…happening upon that strange presumed to be decorative thing of sorts in her right ear.

  ? Bí: specta?te rect?? élla fa?ilitas quam jo éntrare attemptava… Dispatch Fly; there is a suitable port of entry si?uatù s? parti?ionem dextram from my reference frame. Vulo quid éll?c énsíet; di?hé m? quod videtùr. ?

  She merely talked to herself, quietly.

  Her communicator buzzed with acknowledging beeps and boops. Fly, having been active and was discreetly following her wherever she would go, buzzed off from wherever it was hiding and straight to that warehouse of interest. Unnoticed, her little automaton effortlessly identified that conveniently open little vent and buzzed right on in. It promptly began to scan around.

  Being without her auxiliary terminal device, Antica could not directly assess Fly’s visuals or the collected data. Instead, Bee was conveying the received feedback and processed information—what it was seeing—through its own…unique array of beep-boops and fractured speech matrices. However, long accustomed to Bee’s communication, which was a language in its own way, Antica could…largely…understand what her sentinel was telling her.

  She simply listened to the buzzes of her right ear whilst she walked and calmly exited through that front gate, developing the picture… And, indeed, it was quite the picture.

  ? E?ne ?ertissimù? ?

  Her sentinel beep-booped in the affirmative, very certain.

  Antica paused and turned around, looking at the industrial compound now further behind. ? Síc videtùr… ? Interesting. Now she really wanted to break into that warehouse herself, just to confirm with her own ignited eyes and see the specifying details—her brain, after all, had…greater contextualizing capabilities than her sentinel regarding denizen…things, no thanks to the fact she had a full year-and-half’s head start.

  ? Bí: withdraw Fly; príos reveníte. ?

  She recontinued her walk, pace now considerably faster. Either way, she now knew what was within that warehouse… And, indeed, she was obligated to take this information to Faulkner, considering the implications… Provided, of course, that the colonel was oblivious.

  -||-

  The office’s door sprung wide open as Antica so loudly barged in. Speaking words were interrupted as both voices went silent, initially confused before immediately realizing…

  “Well, you are returning with quite the vigor…” Faulkner simply remarked, sitting where he always sat…behind that desk of his. There was a certain sense to his voice…

  “Oh…” For, indeed, standing right at Faulkner’s desk was…that specific soldier of his—that same one who had guided her to and through the headquarters’ training grounds; that same one into whom she so frequently tended to bump… The one obviously in charge of her monitoring. “Did I…disrupt…something?”

  “On the contrary, you saved us from boringness.” Faulkner was frank, gesturing her to approach.

  Aheming, Faulkner’s soldier excused himself to the back, standing right next to the door.

  Antica approached, halting before Faulkner’s desk in his place.

  “I take it that your delivery was successful?” Faulkner swiftly remarked.

  “Obviously.” Indeed, obviously; it was a simple objective.

  “And, thus, your report?” Faulkner prompted, awaiting.

  Yet Antica remained silent… Indeed, her attention glanced at that familiar soldier of Faulkner’s, his presence making any such reporting…oddly difficult.

  “Oh, yes, I believe you two are now acquainted with each other…” Faulkner began to remark; “Sergeant-Major Hathway, you may call him… Despite being amongst the mere enlisted, he is one of my most trusted. Hathway’s presence is therefore permitted.”

  “Rightly…” Antica’s attention returned to the colonel. Presence having been cleared, she proceeded to summarize her so-called ‘delivery’.

  -|-

  “Ah. Well, I imagine that could doubtlessly gone more swimmingly.” Faulkner plainly remarked.

  “You had your soldiers follow me…” Antica continued; “They seemed familiar with them… They could have done this, no? That seemed to have been what those…restorationists would have preferred.”

  “Perhaps. But, you see…” He leaned in with a point. “I wanted you to do it.” He leaned back, relaxing.

  “Of course…” Indeed, of course. “Well, there is nothing for me to ‘report’ that your soldiers cannot. They will have the better details.”

  “Myes, doubtlessly…” Faulkner proceeded to softly clap. “Well, that is yet another fruitful task completed either way. Good work. I should have…updates regarding your pending orders in the coming days, I shall say.” he spoke; “But, if that is all, then you are—”

  “Actually, hold…” Antica abruptly interrupted, having had left out that other thing… Indeed, despite having made the decision, she had begun to deliberate during the walk back… It was not the discovery itself insofar as explaining how she had discovered it… However, she was obligated to report this. “I discovered something…”

  “Hm?” Faulkner immediately raised a curious eyebrow; he leaned in with interest. “A discovery? And what exactly could this be, volunteer?”

  Yet Antica, again, hesitated… “One of the warehouses of…that industrial place, something about it had…taken my attention. It seemed…weird to me; it was being guarded, and he was being…suspicious. I felt that…they were hiding something, so I… uhm… investigated—discreetly; nobody saw me or detected me.”

  “I see…” Faulkner rested his chin atop his closed knuckles, peering into her; “And, thus, what did you discover.”

  “Guns and ammunition.” Antica answered. “Too much of them… And that was only what was visibly obvious. The building…was full of the boxes, containers, and…barrels, which were likely containing much more.”

  Faulkner was silent; his soldier was silent; both were staring, blankly. “I see.” the colonel thus spoke; “Well, that is…quite unsettling…” Indeed, this…was. “And how exactly did you uncover this?” he naturally asked. “Not that I doubt you, of course… This is just…quite the… I do not even have the words.” He did seem surprised, at least.

  “I have my methods.” Antica naturally did not specify. “But I can confirm that the quantity was excessive—potentially several hundreds. Those…restorationists are preparing for something large; that was my only conclusion.”

  “I see…” Faulkner nodded his head, calm. “And… Were you able to inspect them, by chance? Such as…the kind of firearms specifically? Brand, manufacturer, …potential origins? Did they seem local or…alien?”

  ? … ? Antica…deliberated her reply. “No… I was not…able to do a thorough look. I had… Well, I was not supposed to be there; thus, I did not stay long. I did not open any of the containers either… I did not leave any sign of presence.” Obviously, considering she did not actually break in herself.

  “Hm.” Faulkner, again, so nodded… “Truly, I am amazed…” he began to say, “that you did not get caught… I know those warehouses’ designs, and there is no simple way to break in…” He looked at her sternly. “That could have jeopardized everything, volunteer… And all from a mere hunch…”

  “But the hunch was correct.” Antica stated.

  “Myes. Indeed, it seems to have been.” Faulkner so acknowledged. “And it appears we have quite the problem…”

  “It is not by luck that they have found themselves with…that many bullets and guns. They must had been provided them.” Antica remarked. “They had more of the guns than what I observed in that…shop place; there could be a connection, but I am not sure… There are not many places that could provide such a quantity, no?”

  “Oh, doubtlessly, there is plenty to speculate…” Faulkner thus sighed; “Truly, this is quite the heavy discovery; you did well to bring this to my attention.” He reassured, yet… “But I trust that this shall be kept strictly between the two of us.”

  “Hm?” Antica tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  Colonel Faulkner looked straight into her. “Not a single word about this to any other soul at this headquarters, military or civilian. Is that understood, volunteer de Relevancia?” His voice could not have been any clearer. “This is a highly sensitive matter, and I shall see to it that things are appropriately handled from here.”

  Antica was quiet… She instinctually understood operational discretion, thus was not planning on telling anyone else without authorization. Explicitly ordering such was still sensible, yet… There was something else in his voice, she realized; something different… This order felt strange, indeed; or perhaps she had already been feeling strange…

  “It is understood, sir.” Antica nevertheless acknowledged.

  “Good.” Faulkner relaxed. “Dismissed.”

  Antica nodded and turned to excuse herself… Yet she did not immediately move, her mask-obscured eyes being cast down… ? Hehm… ? She finally departed the office and began to make way down the hall, yet she remained trapped in mind… Reflecting, cogitating, inferring…implications. ? Mah. Quidquid síet, nê domeinjù de me… ? With such words mumbled, she continued to walk… Even though she was not stupid—merely aloof, perhaps sometimes willfully.

  Faulkner was quiet as that door came shutting closed, his fingers tapping upon his desk… ?Hm. [Fascinating…]? he began to so remark with a strange expression… ?[Send her to deliver a letter, and she returns having discovered an armory of powder and arms… How troublesome.]? His posture was oddly relaxed… ?[Truly, I was anticipating to a degree, yet one cannot predict everything… Such is the nature of gambits…]?

  ?[Sir…]? Faulkner’s soldier looked at him, concerned… ?[I told you, she’s a dangerously curious woman.]?

  ?[With secret means, apparently.]? Faulkner merely added. ?[And I have no doubt she’s piecing things together; she is clever…]? He sighed. ?[Heh. I have to give him credit… She has been turning out to be quite the something, most truly. I can see why he was so captivated.]? His eyes returned to that closed door, wondering… ?[But I suppose now begins the true test of her adherences and…obedience; whether she remains silent despite suspicions…]? He tapped his fingers, pondering… ?[Although, special or not… I still have skepticisms of her broader…utility to us.]?

  ?[She lacks ideology.]? his soldier remarked.

  ?[Or true allegiances, likely.]? Faulkner went quiet for a moment, reflecting… ?[Hm. Sergeant-major, in case our gambit does fail…]? He looked straight into his most trusted enlistee… ?[Find me someone to hang. I’ll have an investigation pre-prepared for the missing inventory, should the higher Company come asking.]?

  ?[Already know of a few arseholes…]? the sergeant-major acknowledged and quickly departed.

  Faulkner, now alone, relaxed his back against his chair… ?[So many setbacks, truly…]? he began to mumble to himself, reflecting aloud… ?[All minor with respect to the future…]? His eyes merely glanced to the map behind, a covert smirk emerging on his face. He picked up a pin from his desk and stood up… ?[‘And in spring of that year, seventeen sixty-four…]? He began to approach that map. ?[The starving Valerian masses descended upon the heart of their oppression…]? He halted, staring into that map. ?[They tore at the king’s walls… And brick by brick, the ancient order came crumbling…]? He struck the pin right into that center, that heart… ?[…down.’]?

  In the end, all roads converged to a single inevitable destination, regardless of bumps or…random events.